Page 21 of Romancing in Rot

Why do I get the feeling that I’m going to wish I was running with Trish again?

FOUR

SHATTERED

LEON

The street is quiet except for the crunch of gravel under our boots and the wind dragging old trash across the pavement. Buildings sag on either side of us, windows busted, signs hanging crooked, every storefront picked over or rotting from the inside out. A faded banner for a summer sidewalk sale flaps from a lamppost, torn and sun-bleached, the word FUN! still visible in cracked red letters.

Nothing fun left here.

A jewelry store sits near the corner, dark and quiet, gold lettering peeled from the front window.

Perfect.

Something moves inside. A soft scrape. A wet drag.

The undead might not be swarming the streets, but what we’re about to do will bring them. Good. They’ll be useful for what I have planned.

We crouch low and make our way down the street. I raise one hand for her to stop, then nock an arrow and step through the doorway. Broken glass shifts beneath my boots. The smell hits first. Mold, dust, old perfume from shattered bottles behind the counter, and, beneath that, rot. Thick and sweet. The kind that clings to the back of the throat.

One infected turns at the sound, jaw slack, teeth black, a strand of fake pearls tangled around its wrist like it died mid–shopping spree. Its cloudy eyes find me, and it makes a hungry little rasp, arms lifting.

Two steps.

Release.

The arrow punches clean through its skull, landing with a sickening thud. The body drops into a display of necklace stands, sending velvet busts and cheap silver chains scattering across the tile.

I wait one beat, listening. Nothing else moves. No scraping behind the counters. No answering groans from the back room. Just the wind whining through broken glass and Clair’s soft breathing from the doorway.

I cross the floor, pull the arrow free, wipe it on what’s left of the undead’s dress, and slide it back into place.

Done.

“You’re really good at that, you know.” Her voice comes out soft. She’s standing just inside the doorway, one hand wrapped around the strap of her rifle, hazel eyes on me like I did something worth noticing.

Dangerous.

That look is dangerous. A bullet? Fine. Teeth? Easy. Clair looking at me like that? That’ll kill me in the most delicious way.

I pull out the notebook and write, Mostly learned it to impress people.

I hold it up.

She reads it, then huffs out a quiet laugh. Not big. Not full. But real enough to ease something in my ribs.

I give her a wink.

Her eyes stay on me a second too long. Guarded. Tired. Warm in a way that makes me want to step closer and stupid enough to know better.

Her fingers tighten on the rifle strap, but she doesn’t step back.

That’s the problem.

It takes more discipline than I want to admit not to reach for her.

I drag my gaze away before I do something stupid. Something like touch her jaw. Find out if her mouth is as soft as it looks when she’s trying not to smile.